Not All Who Wander Are Lost
by CTilney
Summary: As Aragorn proceeds with the Fellowship towards Mordor, he examines his relationship with everyone in his life and the meaning of those relationships to him. Chapter Two follows Aragorn and the hobbits as they journey to Rivendell.
1. Introduction

Gilraen died of something akin to a broken heart when her son reached his twentieth year. Stroking his newly stubbled cheek one last time, she assured herself that she was no longer needed. With the sigh of too few happy days, she released her hold on the living and joined the eternal dead.

Her son, christened Estel by the Elven lord Elrond, wept bitterly at his mother's death, and not for the last time in his long life, he felt utterly alone. In this same year, Elrond revealed to him his true identity and thereby thrust upon him a future he never wanted.

After the death of her husband, Arathorn, Gilraen sought and received refuge in Imlradis. Elrond had been generous to them, offering them spacious rooms and everything they might want for. They lived for many years in comfort and in safety. Gilraen could never muster the courage to tell her son he could not live so freely forever, or that he was not destined to ever be an Elf. In this way, she ensured her last years, if spent mourning the death of her husband, would at least not be trying.

Peace. Calm. These are preparations for death.

When his mother lay dying, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's only remaining heir, pleaded desperately for her to stay. "Please, Nana," he had said, "stay with me always. I do not wish to be alone."

A small, sad smile graced her features as she replied, "Ah, my son, but you do not yet understand. You will always be alone."

Small comfort to a grieving heart.

When Elrond revealed to Aragorn the nature of his heritage and gave him ancient heirlooms for proof, Aragorn finally understood. To carry such a burden is to be alone. To become king is to always be alone.

So it seemed that Aragorn hastened his life of solitude, as if wanting to choose that path before it was forced upon him, by deciding to fulfill at least one of his duties: he would go North and join the Dunedain Rangers, long leaderless, and he would be their Chieftain. What was left of the Northern Kingdom could have him, he decided, a disbanded realm of wild things, but Gondor never would.

In this same year, before he shed his fine Elven clothing for the rough garb of a wild life, he met Elrond's daughter, Arwen, who had for the past three decades lived with her grandmother, Galadriel, in Lothlorien.

He had heard whispers about her, floating wisps of thought and affection. He had heard that she was as beautiful as the legendary Elf maiden Luthien, who gave her love to a mortal. And she was, he thought. She had to be. When his tired eyes first captured her visage, he thought he had strayed into a dream. Her features were so perfect, they seemed to blur before him; yet when he blinked, there they were—as solid as porcelain. And her eyes: impossibly kind. One glimpse into them, and thousands of years of wisdom rushed out—caressing, fondling. They made him feel like a child, those eyes.

So he would never have predicted that very soon those eyes would close under his clumsy touch, that his fingers would run through the dark, silky strands of her hair, or that the only skin he knew better than his own would be hers.

When their lips first met, he knew love.

Still, he left for the wild, as planned. He told her to forget him, but in his heart, he fervently hoped that she would not—that she could not. To Elrond, who had been so kind to him and to his mother, he promised he would keep himself safe and that Arwen had never been his.

For decades, he wandered, nearly always alone. Yet in the back of his mind, Imlradis remained his home. There his mother's body rested. There his true love dwelled. On the rare occasion of his return, it was as if they had never parted. It disturbed him a little that the both of them found the separation bearable. Then he realized that his entire life was but a dash of time to Arwen, that she perhaps had not considered that very soon (at least in her terms) he would die.

"You must forget me," he had said, "for I am mortal, and though my love for you is everlasting, I cannot linger here forever."

"Aragorn," she had said with a laugh, "you speak as if you do not think I have considered this. I have. I have thought about the grief of your passing, and believe me when I say this: I would rather live one lifetime with you than pass through all the ages alone."

Aragorn then realized another significant truth about the beings he had often so envied as a child: that because they lived forever, every instance was somehow less sweet to them, a little less poignant and a little less meaningful. A mortal had to savor each beautiful moment as if it were his last, for it very well may be. But an immortal, though never losing appreciation for beauty or truth, stood like a marble statue in a great hall. She could watch the passing of time without being a part of it. She had this leisure, to detach herself. Sometimes it was even necessary to do so, for Elves carried the woes and burdens of a single lifetime forever. Feelings ran deep, so deep they no longer appeared apparent, so deep, sometimes, that they were no longer easily recognized. She could go through a thousand years without falling to raptures or partaking in passion.

This was the curse of immortality. For happiness, there must be sadness. For true life, there must be death.

Some part of him understood that Arwen loved him only more because of his mortality. Because he was fleeting, she treasured him desperately. Because he was not ageless, she felt the pains of fear as well as the passions of love.

"Aragorn," she had continued, "I have made my choice. When the time is right, I will forsake the light of the Eldar and join you in life, as well as death."

"When will the time be right?"

"You will know, when the time comes."


	2. Chapter 1

**I forgot to put this earlier, but of course all of these characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. Reviews are greatly appreciated.**

Aragorn had been looking for Mithrandir for some amount of time before he caught a waft of his presence. The wizard was better than the ranger at going unseen when he wished it; even Aragorn's skills in tracking proved fruitless, for the wizard obviously did not want to be found. Aragorn then remembered Mithrandir's fondness for the Shire-folk, as well as his fondness for their pipe weed, and that the wizard's especial friend, a Bilbo Baggins, would have or had already thrown a lavish birthday party. As Mithrandir could resist neither hobbits nor weed, he would be sure to attend.

At last, this trace of a clue brought Aragorn toward the Shire, a quiet place full of small people, who looked upon him suspiciously and seemed to threaten him with their pitchforks as he passed. He bit back a smile. He wondered what it would be like to be stoned to death with potatoes. But, of course, he did not blame them. He was quite tall, even for a man, and at six and a half feet, he must have seemed particularly large to the hobbits.

Not to mention the rest of how he looked. Aragorn could not in all honesty remember the last time he had bathed or shaved, the last time he had combed his hair or worn a color other than brown. He was not particularly vain, but he was conscious enough of how others might perceive him. He was no king, but neither was he a rogue!

But, as was Mithrandir's way, by the time Aragorn reached the Shire, there was no trace of the wizard. It was nightfall by then, so Aragorn could not stop to ask any hobbits if they possibly knew of Gandalf's whereabouts. Not if he valued his life.

As he crouched in the shrubbery so as not to appear a menacing shadow to the hobbits warm in their holes, and as he pondered his next course of action, he heard loud whispers. Four distinct voices. They said Gandalf's name, more than once, and he knew he should follow them. They were heading toward Bree, at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. As he crouched in shrubbery beyond the borders of the Shire, he realized they were not far from Bree, not by his route.

He would get there first, then.

* * *

The innkeeper knew him too well. Although he scorned the weakness of his forefathers and of his people, Aragorn allowed himself one weakness of man: the drink. He confessed that he liked it just as well as anybody; he even preferred the harsh ale of such rough taverns to the smooth, refined taste of Elvish wine. He could see Legolas wrinkling his nose at that. Legolas, an Elf he had befriended not long ago. He smiled at the memory of their meeting.

His thoughts were interrupted by familiar voices. Ah, so they had finally decided to come! Suddenly, he felt something clench in his chest, felt a hiss brush against his ear. He knew not how, but he sensed great evil; all was not right. He was glad for his hood, else others might see the uneasiness flit across his face.

He watched the four hobbits and also knew that Mithrandir had meant for him to follow them—to protect them, perhaps. From what?

Then in the rain and in the still night, he heard undertones of a high, shrill screech, followed by the sound of heavy hooves against the wet earth.

One hobbit, who had introduced himself as Mr. Underhill, frantically pushed aside another, much animated with drink. In panic, he lost his footing and fell. A heavy, golden ring seemed to linger in the air for far too long before it found its place on his outstretched finger and—and he vanished.

Impossible! Aragorn could go unseen if he wished it, though of course not as well as Mithrandir. He could blend into the shadows, move stealthily through the wilderness. But the hobbit had completely vanished.

And in his heart, the hissing had not stopped.

Foreboding overtook him as he rose and determined to confront the hobbits. First he would have to find—

Aragorn brushed against something when he was sure nothing had been there. In one fluid movement, he stepped toward this something, snatched at the air, and found that he was grasping something quite solid.

The hobbit reappeared, now pressed up against a wall, clearly frightened.

The evident fear pained Aragorn, but he could not, at the moment, look much fairer. He whispered, "That is no trinket you carry."

"I carry nothing."

"Indeed."

Roughly, he half-dragged the hobbit up to his room, where they could be afforded more privacy. The others had bravely followed. He nearly laughed when they burst in, armed with candlesticks.

"You are being followed." He meant for it to be a question, even though he already knew the answer.

"Yes," said the one he now knew as Frodo, "by nine dark riders on black horses."

The Nine. It could not be. They served Sauron for all eternity, and Sauron would not send them out on any common errand. For all eternity, they searched for the One Ring.

The One Ring. Could it be that Frodo carried the One Ring? That the One Ring had been found? The Ring his ancestor, Isildur, had failed to destroy in his greed and lust for power. The Ring that had ruined the royal line as, one by one, his forefathers fell to its power.

"What are they?" asked Frodo. He had seen a glimmer of recognition, and fear, in the man's eyes.

It took Aragorn a moment to collect himself. "They were once great kings of men. Then Sauron the Deceiver offered them nine rings of power, which they took without question, blinded by their greed. They are his servants forever."

The five sat, waiting for the riders to pass and waiting for the slow-approaching dawn.


	3. Chapter 2

**I apologize for this taking so long. It's relatively short, too. I have no excuses, except for my utter lack of intrinstic motivation. Offer me good extrinsic motivation, and review!**

Aragorn did not sleep that night, nor for many nights thereafter.

The Ring pressed on his mind like a malignant tumor, and his ears rang with the Hobbits' cheerful but constant chatter. From what he could discern, three of the Hobbits were kin, the other their gardener, and they all possessed a great deal to say to one another. He was thankful for this, else he'd have to prove better company than he was yet capable of being. It seemed this time he had gone too long alone.

When his mind was not fixed on the Ring, the eating habits of Hobbits, or the Nazgul that followed them, it turned over and over to their destination and who awaited him there.

"Where are we going?" Frodo had inquired.

"Rivendell, Master Baggins," he had replied.

"And," Frodo had continued, looking at him curiously, "do you know the place well?"

"I have been there many times. I spent much of my youth there."

"Then you have family there."

"No, not really."

He thought of Elrond gently mending his broken bones, patching up his scrapes and bruises, when he was a child. He remembered the way Elrond's high brows would furrow and, when his lips weren't pursed tightly together, how he would lecture Aragorn in a low tone, Sindarin almost too quick for Aragorn to understand. And when he was ill, Aragorn remembered not his mother, but Elrond, laying a cool hand against his forehead and listening for the pulse of his heart.

But why had Frodo asked him these questions? Was his eagerness so apparent, so evident in his manner? Did he walk with unusual purpose or with particular quickness?

Aragorn found Frodo looking at him curiously again one night.

"I have heard you sing at night of an Elf maiden. Who is she?"

"She is Luthien, renowned for her beauty, who gave her love to the mortal Beren."

"But you do not sing of another man's maiden."

Aragorn was taken aback. Frodo was perceptive, his mind keener, perhaps, than even his appetite. He did not expect that of a Hobbit.

"No," he said after a long pause, "not another man's, but not mine, either."

Frodo merely nodded and sat down beside him.

Although he did not mind the silence that then fell between them, Aragorn assumed that Frodo expected him to speak. So he said, "We will reach Weathertop by tomorrow. There we will rest for the night."

"The great watch-tower."

"Yes." Aragorn found himself smiling at the Hobbit. "Do you enjoy the history of Men?'

"Bilbo used to read to me all the great stories of Men and Elves and Dwarves. When I learned to read, I preferred the stories of Men myself. There is a—" Here Frodo paused. "There is a strength in men that one does not find in others, I think."

"But it is Man who has failed so often," Aragorn quietly replied.

"Yes, but it is Man who bothers to try. He may falter or fall, but he tries and picks himself up again. Elves are content with knowledge, Dwarves with jewels, Hobbits with good food and drink and the bountiful earth, but Men—Men will not still if they can help it." Upon observing Aragorn's slightly raised brow: "But of course, I know nothing of these matters. I only read."


End file.
